The beautiful people rule the world, and the artists who make beautiful art die rich.

Certainly this is hyperbole, but it is hyperbole with a substantial serving of truth. Ugliness fascinates people, but few of us desire to be considered ugly and equally few desire to hang it on their walls. That is the beauty of horror films – the monster is there on the screen, then, poof, when the lights come up they’ re gone, transient, and we can go back to our still-lifes, our landscapes, and our portraits of pretty women and fluffy animals.

So beyond ugly, what is my art? Well, I’d say it is expressionist - drawing deeply upon my own emotional state, amplified often by music and unwise quantities of caffeine. It is also pop, drawing heavily from advertisement campaigns, comic books, cartoons, and newspaper strips. Throw in a healthy dose of surrealism and symbolism, impregnate it with heavy doses of political science and philosophy, and lifelong loves of theology, mythology, paleontology, history, and cryptozoology, and you have my art.